Marvel Magic Case Files

Chapter 882 The Last Gift (Second Update)

While Sherlock Holmes stood dejectedly at the airplane door, the wind stinging his face exposed by his goggles, Salomon had already left Baker Street. His tarot card readings, used to solve the case, forced even the stubborn Sherlock to acknowledge the power of magic. Using clues from the tarot cards, combined with the powerful search capabilities of the internet, Salomon unearthed details not mentioned in the case files, and even private information known only to those close to him. The threads of the money-for-power transactions were as clear as glaring ink on a blank sheet of paper; what initially seemed like a bizarre case of resurrection became as bland as a boring academic paper under the sorcerer's analysis. If MI5 and MI6 couldn't apprehend the perpetrators with this intelligence, it only proved that from World War II to the Cold War, and from the Cold War to the present, Britain's intelligence system has remained consistently "talented."

The tarot card readings replaced Sherlock Holmes's deductions, much to the detective's displeasure. He still refused to incorporate the unstable element of magic into his reasoning. The sorcerer, however, was unconcerned, as Holmes had already booked a tour, where he would gradually broaden his horizons and gain a profound understanding of how difficult it was for the human race to survive. His sense of social responsibility and curiosity would drive him forward until he fell into Salomon's trap. This was a perfectly legitimate, open strategy, not a plot to recruit Stephen Strange, a fact Holmes couldn't escape even if he realized it.

He won, so Sherlock Holmes was unable to bring a parachute when he jumped.

Watson tried his best to dissuade his roommate from doing something so foolish, but having witnessed Salomon's methods firsthand, Holmes knew that the tarot card reading was merely a demonstration of power; the portal was the real trump card. He also believed that Salomon hadn't lied during their previous meeting. Since he dared to make such a demand, it proved the sorcerer wouldn't dare let him die, and he was willing to take the risk. "Do I look unhappy, Watson?" he shouted. "I'm glad there are still so many unsolved mysteries in this world… and you. I'm glad to be your friend!"

"You didn't have to say your last words, Holmes!" Watson gripped his roommate's coat tightly. He really didn't understand how the plane had taken off, or how they had gone through the formalities to board. However, these weren't questions the medic needed to ponder; he was using all his strength just to clench his fist. "Don't be silly! That person is definitely just teasing you!"

See you later!

Before the medic could even react, Sherlock Holmes deftly released his nearly convulsing hand. John Watson screamed frantically, searching for his parachute on the plane before slinging it over his shoulder and jumping, without even bothering to put on goggles or an altimeter. It wasn't until he started fumbling for the controls that he began to recall his military training. He watched helplessly as Sherlock Holmes's figure plummeted towards the ground under the pull of gravity, yet he could never reach him. The medic screamed desperately in the air, oblivious to the fact that he was approaching the limit of his parachute's deployment distance. Relying on visual observation and his past parachuting experience, he managed to open the parachute, and once he finally landed, he immediately dragged his aching, weak legs toward where his roommate had fallen—he shuffled along, panting and praying, wanting to rush over to check on him but filled with fear. John Watson mustered his courage and walked over, his forehead covered in cold sweat. However, the scene he had imagined—Sherlock Holmes turned into mincemeat—did not appear. Instead, his roommate was lying on the grass, laughing weakly and hoarsely.

The feeling of relief was fleeting, followed by an uncontrollable surge of anger.

"You're insane!" Watson pointed angrily to his head. His heart was pounding at its limit from the terrifying parachute jump. He felt dizzy, his hands and feet were cold, his nose was numb, and his tear ducts felt as heavy as if they had been filled with molten lead and then rapidly cooled. He couldn't even remember how he got here a minute ago. "I should have known! I should have known you didn't value your life! You're a fucking lunatic!" the medic roared. "I'm not going to care about you anymore, Sherlock Holmes! I shouldn't have cared about you!"

"I'm fine. I floated down, like a feather." Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes, stretched out his limbs, and smiled broadly. "I never do anything I'm not sure of, and I'm sure he doesn't want me to die. But thank you for your concern anyway."

"No! I don't care about you!" Watson deflated like a balloon. He waved his hand. "That's it, I'm tired. I'll have Mary pick me up. Go home by yourself, and remember to tell Mrs. Hudson I won't be having dinner there tonight."

"Give my regards to Mary."

Don't even think about it!

"Miss Morstan, this is a gift from the Immortal City." Salomon, dressed in a black suit and mourning attire, knocked on the apartment door. Faced with a stranger addressing her by her first name, Mary Morstan's first reaction was to feign ignorance, until she saw the document wrapped in a manila envelope. "I know it's very impolite to visit without permission, but I was worried you might think someone was trying to threaten you if I sent it by mail," he said. "I can assure you that from this day forward, neither S.H.I.E.L.D. nor Hydra will know your past identity, nor will MI6, MI5, or the CIA. This is the last file on your past; all traces of you on the internet have been erased, even the information of the person who once owned this name has been wiped clean. You can take this secret to your grave; no one will ever use it to threaten you again."

"Who are you?" Mary Morstan remained remarkably calm. Her professionalism as a top-tier agent was on full display. She took a small step back, using the door panel to conceal her hand reaching behind her back for a gun. Salomon knew the muzzle of the pistol was pointed at him through the door, but he had already cast a protective spell, and he wasn't worried about the bullet while the spell lasted. However, he still dispelled the bullet-reflecting spell, leaving only three layers of protective magic: energy dissipation, metal softening, and a protective force field, in case Mary Morstan actually fired and the bullet was magically deflected back.

"He could be considered a friend of both Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes," the sorcerer shrugged. "That's why I made this guarantee for your safety."

You did not answer my question.

“I’m sorry, madam,” Salomon replied. “I absolutely do not wish to mention to John Watson that I was here. All the security cameras in the vicinity are currently powered off, whether it’s cell phones or bank surveillance cameras; no one will find out we spoke. Oh, and if Mycroft Holmes comes looking for you… believe me, all his threats are false; there is no evidence of your past. And please, mock him for me; you can tell him my name is Salomon Damonette.”

Who is Mycroft Holmes?

"Don't worry about the CIA, they think you're dead. This is intelligence the Immortal City obtained directly from the CIA database." Salomon smiled, still not answering the question. "Goodbye, madam, this is the last time you'll ever see me."

Please vote for me!

(End of this chapter)